No temperance, we haven’t needed it yet today, no moderation when it comes to
repression. islands so remote that a can of store bought biscuits might be e no ugh to
crack open the question of the future. just there, across the threshold of the 20th century we k
no w the future: we kno w its language intimately. we mouth it as we gather history’s white
skirt in our dirtied hands: no ne of the east coast is free of the touch of sugar and rice. we k
no w – our grandmothers’ blue hands are tired of lathering up emotion in our stories to
make us look clean. please, within this century let our grandmothers stay stained filthy. let our
hearts hear the roll of utterance on the tides as they repeat: Ya can’t get back whatcha never
owned. don’t we k no
w: water others islands, performs mitosis of open palms. blue
makes estuaries of skin. blue that first north, the sky, obsession. blue always bright in isolation.
blue, a bruise when pressed into warns: What is past is prologue. off blue echo giggles of a
no ther cynicism. we k no w it, it’s ours, that laugh of the future Yellow Mary ruins. laugh of
that place up no rth: No - va Sco - tia on Eula’s lips, so distant and mispronounced. No rth.
Atlantic cold as blood, warm as the south. no metaphor. we ask again: who remembers?
who stays? no t me. I said no, sold the lie to own narrative. the men who redrew the borders,
said it too: come no
rth, no
rth, no
live oak up here! No
rth, a gesture upwards, like heaven, a lie, a no ise, too
loud, covered ears with open palms. waiting. each century turns, a
breach; the legacy of memory is love, I guess, or no t. it depends.
no, one landscape, one people, feeds into another, and we split.
mitosis into open palms. a gesture upwards: you can’t have
everything, and yet. we k no w there is celebration and
homecoming even in displacement. and yet childhood is, when we
k no w everything, until possibility closes too early, always too
early. it happens again my grandmother beckons me over with
urgency. I stand over her tablet and she yanks me back from
narrative – promise: no narrative, no, I k no w, I no.
thank you, no. I k no w, I promise I will keep the secret
and I will keep ruining myself towards freedom too
No temperance, we haven’t needed it yet today, no moderation when it comes to
repression. islands so remote that a can of store bought biscuits might be e no ugh to
crack open the question of the future. just there, across the threshold of the 20th century we k
no w the future: we kno w its language intimately. we mouth it as we gather history’s white
skirt in our dirtied hands: no ne of the east coast is free of the touch of sugar and rice. we k
no w – our grandmothers’ blue hands are tired of lathering up emotion in our stories to
make us look clean. please, within this century let our grandmothers stay stained filthy. let our
hearts hear the roll of utterance on the tides as they repeat: Ya can’t get back whatcha never
owned. don’t we k no
w: water others islands, performs mitosis of open palms. blue
makes estuaries of skin. blue that first north, the sky, obsession. blue always bright in isolation.
blue, a bruise when pressed into warns: What is past is prologue. off blue echo giggles of a
no ther cynicism. we k no w it, it’s ours, that laugh of the future Yellow Mary ruins. laugh of
that place up no rth: No - va Sco - tia on Eula’s lips, so distant and mispronounced. No rth.
Atlantic cold as blood, warm as the south. no metaphor. we ask again: who remembers?
who stays? no t me. I said no, sold the lie to own narrative. the men who redrew the borders,
said it too: come no
rth, no
rth, no
live oak up here! No
rth, a gesture upwards, like heaven, a lie, a no ise, too
loud, covered ears with open palms. waiting. each century turns, a
breach; the legacy of memory is love, I guess, or no t. it depends.
no, one landscape, one people, feeds into another, and we split.
mitosis into open palms. a gesture upwards: you can’t have
everything, and yet. we k no w there is celebration and
homecoming even in displacement. and yet childhood is, when we
k no w everything, until possibility closes too early, always too
early. it happens again my grandmother beckons me over with
urgency. I stand over her tablet and she yanks me back from
narrative – promise: no narrative, no, I k no w, I no.
thank you, no. I k no w, I promise I will keep the secret
and I will keep ruining myself towards freedom too